


Errs & The Bighearted

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: It's just another day in a long string of just-another-days.John wants relief from the boredom.The universe provides.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Errs & The Bighearted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [88thParallel (CanadaHolm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/gifts).



> The request from 88thParallel was for BBC Sherlock, flavored with The Three Garridebs. More chapters to come!

John sighed with relief when the clinic manager waved him out the door at the end of another long shift full of patients with high speed internet and higher speed anxiety. The amount of time he spent talking worried parents down from the worst-case scenario or reassuring adults that their lingering cough was the by-product of flu rather than an early sign of cancer, was appalling. He wanted to tell them that he’d used to handle actual life-and-death diagnoses, wanted to put their fungal infections and plantar fasciitis into a bit of perspective. Ugly thoughts that left him feeling unworthy and a poor representation of medical professionalism. Knowing that his current dissatisfaction was born of ennui was the sort of self-reflection Ella had always tried to encourage, but he doubted its therapeutic value. Wasn’t it supposed to make him feel _better_? 

Maybe Sherlock would have a case. A good puzzle, a good chase. A good fight, maybe. John ignored the whisper in his head that said yearning for a good fight to raise his spirits was slightly more troubling than being bored with routine. He pulled out his phone.

_Anything on?_

_Just finished at NSY. Old case. Boring. SH_

Blast. Another night in, then, with the most exciting thing an argument about cooking versus ordering in. But maybe...the Greek Grocery was just a short detour. Alastair had bought the failing shop from his brother and transformed the bog-standard corner grocery by adding a rotating selection of fresh baked goods. And today was baklava day. John could already taste the honey-sticky pastry, rich with nuts and butter and perfectly crisp filo. Not a perfect fix, but something that might sweeten his mood.

_Meet me at Georgiou’s?_

_See you in thirty minutes. SH_

He couldn’t jog in his work shoes but he walked briskly and got lucky at every crossing, arriving ahead of Sherlock’s suggested time frame. There was a woman ahead of him, heavily pregnant, ushering a pair of children through the door. He followed them in, waving to Alastair and heading down an aisle of canned goods toward the cooler at the back of the store; might as well get milk while he waited. A dark haired teenager slouched against the glass, hands in the fraying pockets of his denim jacket and scowling ferociously. “‘Scuse me,” John said, and nodded toward the door. The boy glared and didn’t move. 

John stared pointedly back. It was a stare that had cowed war-hardened soldiers, intransigent police staff, and the odd criminal. It didn’t take long to work on an angry child putting on a tough front. With a dismissive sneer, the boy scooted sideways until he was no longer blocking the door, planting his feet and jutting his elbows out as he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. John smiled tightly and pulled open the case, grabbing a carton of semi-skimmed and checking the use-by date, dropping it when he was grabbed from behind in a one-arm headlock. The boy who’d been loitering against the cooler waved a long-bladed knife in his face. “Up to the register. Don’t be stupid and I won’t stick you.”

John allowed himself to be turned and marched toward the front of the store. The children saw him first, one staring with wide eyes and clutching at her mother’s arm, the other letting loose a piercing scream that had his mother turning awkwardly to see what frightened him. When she beheld John and his captor she grabbed her children and tried to run, only to stop and press them behind her when two more men burst through the door, one brandishing a wicked hook-bladed axe and the other loosely holding a bright pink tactical flashlight at his hip. “Money, old man. Now!” He raised his arm and there was a buzzing flash that made everyone flinch. 

Not a flashlight, then, but a taser. Of unknown voltage, but likely enough to kill an unborn child. Or an old man. Or any of them, really.

“Alright. Yes, alright.” Alastair opened the register, reaching in and pulling out a small handful of bills. “Here. Take it and get out of my shop.” 

“Where’s the rest of it?” 

“This is all.” One trembling hand indicated the empty drawer. 

“There’s gotta be a safe,” said the man with the axe. He waved it at his partner. “Find out where it is; make him open it.” 

“I cannot!” Georgiou said in panicked tones. “Only the courier can.” 

There was silence for a long moment, then the one with the taser turned and threw the bolt on the door. “Courier better be coming tonight, then.” 

“Yes. Yes! Seven o’clock.”

The axe waved menacingly, herding the captives into an interior aisle. “Get on the floor.” 

Alastair hurried from behind the counter to take the woman’s arm as she carefully lowered herself to lean against the shelves. “You could at least give her a chair,” John snapped. 

“Shut it.” The boy holding him hooked his foot around John’s ankle and gave a violent shove. He managed to get a hand out to stop himself landing face-first on the scuffed lino, then realized his error when his shoulder popped and erupted into agony. His arm refused to support him and he fell to his side, panting against the pain. When he could finally hear past the buzzing in his ears, there seemed to be an argument happening over his head.

“This is stupid, Alex. Armoured cars got radios; they’ll call the cops.” 

“So what? They got checklists, too. Too many false alarms ain’t good for business. Doors locked, can’t get in, they start making calls. Safe opens. We get the money and get gone before the cops get here.”

“I dunno, man.” 

“Jesus, Nathan. Quit whining.” The taser sounded again, followed by laughter. “Made ya’ jump, didn’t it? Useless coward.” The children were crying, quiet hitching sobs and sniffles, their trying to calm them, soothing murmurs underlain with terror. John panted and tried to will the pain away. Heavy soled black leather boots appeared in front of his face, silver buckles flashing when one drew back for a kick. John went cold, then flushed hot when the kick went over his head. His abuser moved on, laughing and taunting the other captives. He needed to be upright; needed to be able to draw them away from the children, the woman. Alastair. Up. He had to sit up. His left arm was trapped beneath him, his right one useless and screaming with pain. He flopped onto his back, biting off a pained cry when his shoulder came down on the hard floor, and scrabbling with his feet to push himself up to sprawl against a shelf of bathroom tissue and feminine products. Teeth clenched against the pain howling through his arm, he started looking for an escape route. There was a door leading away from the cash wrap into what he supposed was the office. There must be a back entrance for taking deliveries, but with no idea where it was it might as well not exist. He gave the room another sweeping glance looking for anything -anything at all- and coming up completely blank.

The locked door rattled, and Sherlock’s voice called out, “Mr Georgiou? Is everything alright?” Hope surged when John saw him peering through the window and was dashed when he realized the angle was wrong; Sherlock wouldn’t see anything more than an empty store. 

“Tell him you closed early,” Alex snarled. 

Georgiou licked his lips and called out “Closed early; think I’m coming down with something.” Fear thickened his voice, lending credence to the lie.

There was a pause, then Sherlock answered, “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Yes, thank you.” He glanced at John from the corner of his eye, keeping his voice aimed at the door. “Good afternoon, Mr Watson.”


End file.
